“Are we not friends?”
“Yes. Yes, of course we are.” Her ribs ached, and she inhaled deeply to control the tumult.
He sliced into the space between them like a knife between the ribs. His thigh rested so close to hers, and he twisted to face her. “When this coach stops, we must pretend a connection wedo not possess. You cannot call me Clearford, and I cannot call you Lady. Do you understand?”
Brother and sister. Yes, they must pretend so. No other way to explain their traveling together. “I understand.”
“Good, then. Let me hear it. Let me hear you say my name.”
Why did it sound so important to him? Why did it feel so very difficult?
“Samuel,” she whispered.
“Louder, Emma, and with confidence. As if you are used to saying it.”
A shiver crept up her spine as his name tumbled informally from his lips. “Samuel.” Louder, but still so small.
His hand appeared out of the shadows, and his thumb traced the line of her lower lip. “Louder, Emma. As if you’ve said it in every way a woman can say a man’s name.” That roll of thunder in his throat… she’d never heard it before, and it stole a shiver through her.
She slapped his hand away. “Samuel Merriweather, if you do not behave, I will… I will…”
“What, Emma? To whom will I have to answer?”
“You will answer tome. And believe me, I will find a suitable punishment.”
He chuckled and fell against the squabs. “I trust you will.”
The coach stopped, and Emma looked out the window. Nothing much to see but the dark shapes of a coaching inn courtyard. Stairs to one side of the building, a door opening to warm candlelight in the center.
Samuel opened the coach and jumped down, held out a hand.
She took it, and as soon as her feet touched the ground, his arm wound round her waist. He pecked her temple with a firm kiss that stole her breath, then guided her inside the inn.
When she tugged, attempting to escape, he only manacled her tighter to his side.
“What in heaven’s name, Clearford?”
“Samuel,” he whispered low in her ear. “Remember that, Emma. Important for the ruse.”
Yes, a brother and sister would not be so formal.
A man approached, and Samuel greeted him. “My wife and I are traveling to Scotland and need a room for the night.”
Wife?Wife? No, no. Brother and sister. That’s what they were to pretend. Not husband and wife. The devil! What was he about? She wriggled, trying to dislodge herself from his side.
He kissed her temple and held her tighter. “I am good friends with the owner of The Hestia Inns, and he has asked that you let us stay in his suite.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter, passed it to the older gentleman, who opened and read it swiftly.
“Of course. We’re honored to prove to Mr. Trent that we are already meeting his standards. I am Mr. Johns, and if you will follow me…” Mr. Johns scurried to a stairway at the back of the room.
Clearford pulled her along in Mr. Johns’s wake.
“What are you doing?” Emma hissed. “We were to pretend to be brother and sister!”
“I never said that.” He kissed her temple again.
Terrifying. Particularly because each time he did it, it felt better than before. Magic of some sort, incomprehensible and unescapable. “I assumed. It’s the more logical option. A husband and wife might use one another’s titles, but a brother and sister—”
“Me and my wife would not. Nowshh, darling. Not so loud. And this is entirely more logical.”